Swimmer Watercolour by Archan Knotz

Water

As I write the word, water,

 I think of the deeply moving book by Deepa Mehta - Water-.

Water, solid and moving, cleansing, dirty, undrinkable. 

A child said, -can you believe that people pee in clean water and we don't have clean water to drink?-

This is not what I am thinking of when I submerge myself in the Northumberland Strait.

 I think of the salt in the water and how I always believed that it cleanses the aura. How this water can heal me, how it gives me my strength back, or develops new once.

 I bravely have moved away from having been a pool girl all my life to embrace the open see.

The waves sometimes so high that the red bathing cap I am wearing disappeared for some time under the waves. 

Swallowing seawater must be good for you? 

Feeling the motion of the waves through the whole day as I sit still.

I love it, I feel a connection to this precious resource. Feeling braver with every stroke.

Feeling brave in stepping out into a new adventure. 

     

Father

 

How many times have I imaged this call over the last 20 years, how will I feel, so far away. How will it be traveling for 16 hours? Arriving exhausted? Dealing with the funeral arrangements? Facing my mom and her grief?  Thank you adrenaline! 

 

When it came, I knew, 

I had not slept well in the night. Nevertheless, time changes, reality changes, another universe opens up when death happens. 

 

My father has died.

He had been suffering from Dementia for about 5 years, but in the last couple of month it has become to much for my mom and he had to be transferred into a full time care facility,  a unit for people with Alzheimer and Dementia. When visiting the unit, I told myself, he didn't know anymore where he was, to comfort myself.

Yes, he could no longer express himself, but was he aggressive because of it? I don't know, and I don't want to go down this road, to slippery, to dangerous for my mental health. 

 

After visiting the Alzheimer/Dementia unit, I felt deep pain and fear, I needed to get out, walk in the soft rain. Wanting to walk fast, breath hard, feel, I am still living. Walk and forget the woman holding on to me with her panic, while walking up and down the corridor. 

 

Breathing air, fresh air, 

defying aging,

walking fast, see I can still  

arrogant

however, I was already an hour older,

every second aging me

the unit a memory 

I am bound to forget.

 

The corridor, white, up and down, like ghosts, the people walk. My Dad, his spirit still sticks to these walls. 

Another man is in the room my Dad occupied, he doesn't look good, how long will he still have to suffer?

 

 When I was in Germany, my care was with my mom, making sure she is alright and are able to continue on. She is, she always was a survivor, what strength.